


On My Mind

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Rimming, Shaving, Take Your Fandom to Work Day, slight D/s undertones, take your winterhawk to work day, technically a college/university AU, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 14:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18693619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Why again had Clint decided to go into academe? There had to be a reason - it had to have been something more than a drunken declaration or a bitterness driven 'fuck you' to his own professors. Right?A Take Your Winterhawk To Work Day Fic: welcome to the glamor of academe. I seriously hope none of you ever have to experience this pain.





	On My Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> \----  
> For CB. We decided to trade lipstick blowjobs. Which... well. If you want a freaking AMAZING lipstick blowjob, you came to the wrong fic - go read hers. But if you want complications and feelings that were NOT INVITED... well, that's in both of these.  
> My point is, make sure you read hers too.
> 
> Because we should all live the softcore feeling, hardcore porn life in 2019.

**BucKyBBBB: what are you wearing?**

 

The text message pinging, loud and shrill and completely unexpected, startled Clint so badly that he almost tipped over his chair and fell.

 

He managed to recover his balance, flip his phone face-down, a _nd_ continued his impromptu tirade.

 

“Uh, right - my concern with putting discipline specific courses in our _Core_ General Education program is that the Core is only one-third of the total credit hours our students take. The idea behind a Core is to have a foundation that all of our students can build upon - we want _all_ of our students to exhibit the skills, ethics and knowledge that Core courses give them. But if we let specific programs have built-in loopholes or put in all of this ‘professional development’ in the Core - that’s going to limit what they learn, and it’s going to limit transferable skills.”

 

Clint finished his thought, very professionally not thinking about the text he had just received, and instead focusing on his incandescent rage over the current bullshit proposal that the Core Curriculum Committee was discussing.

 

Every Friday for the past _year_ , Clint had been subjected to three-hour meetings as a member of the Core Curriculum Committee Revision Task Force. And yeah, he had problems with the timing, the name and most of his fellow committee/task force members. And they had problems with him. So… all in all, Fridays hadn’t been his favorite days for a very long time.

 

Which sucked, because on Fridays, he didn’t even teach - he just supervised three work-study students and used the day to catch up on grading and listening to podcasts. Until his department chair volunteered Clint for this damn committee.

 

And Clint got it, sort of. Yeah, he was the newest _and_ youngest faculty member in his department, so he got the shitty committee assignments no one else wanted - including being assigned to two committees when everyone else just had the one - and, theoretically, he was the faculty member who had completed his undergraduate education most recently. So, Core… sure. Fine. Whatever. Nevermind the fact that Clint was teaching an overload - just like he had done every single semester since he had been hired on as a full-time professor two years ago - and nevermind the fact that Clint had more advisees than the _rest of his department put together,_ and nevermind the fact that Clint had professional side gigs to deal with, and nevermind the fact that Clint was the worst possible choice for this committee.

 

Because Clint cared too damn much.

 

Clint had gone to undergrad at an actual liberal arts university - the kind where he took a grand total of eighteen courses in his major, and spent the rest of his college education taking things from Archery to Hebrew to Modern Middle Eastern History to Biological Anthropology to the Ethics of Nuclear Power, because that’s what you _did_ at a liberal arts university. And sure, the Archery had been for the easy “A”, considering that Clint had gone to the university specifically _because_ they had an incredibly competitive Archery club and Clint was… that guy.

 

But the university where Clint currently taught? _Not_ a liberal arts university. It was, as best as anyone could answer Clint, a comprehensive university. Which basically meant that they claimed to have a ‘foundation’ in the liberal arts, and also placed emphasis on professional programs and something, something, something - no one really _knew_.

 

Including the people chairing this committee. People who, approximately ten minutes into the first meeting Clint had been able to attend, decided that Clint was the actual literal embodiment of all that was wrong with millenials and the world today.

 

So. It had been a fun year. Great Fridays. Great-

 

Clint was distracted from his own dark thoughts and the ongoing debate after his last argument against the truly idiotic suggestion of including a generic professional development course in the Core by his phone chiming with another incoming text.

 

Half the table glared at him - including the co-chair whose fucking phone went off every forty minutes, and who refused to silence it - and Clint offered up a sheepish twist of his lips while he scrambled to silence it.

 

And to check the new message.

 

**BucKyBBBB: I need to know for science**

 

Clint just barely refrained from snorting a laugh.

 

He positioned his phone in his lap and finally texted Bucky back.

 

**Me: I’m wearing the cloak of inevitable defeat and the hat of why the fuck am i doing this again**

 

**BucKyBBBB: …**

 

While waiting for the ellipses to resolve into an actual message, Clint forced himself to listen to the conversation going on around him.

 

As he had anticipated, all of the fifty-year-old - or older - faculty around the table were in stringent disagreement with him, and only the history professor, Sam Wilson - a guy Clint’s age, and one of the few black professors at the school - was trying to argue for Clint’s suggestion that a course explicitly on Diversity and Social Justice be added to the Core instead of _how to write a fucking resume for a job not in your damn field_.

 

His phone vibrated to signal a new text.

 

**BucKyBBBB: So you’re basically naked**

 

Clint rolled his eyes, but his despair felt a little less suffocating as he thought about how to respond.

 

Bucky - or Dr. James Buchanan Barnes - was, like Clint, one of the handful of professors on campus under forty. They even had a club - The Young, Dumb Assholes - and a standing Happy Hour date at the local brewery on Fridays at five-thirty. The club was comprised of Sam from History, Steve Rogers from Fine Art, Natasha Romanoff from Criminal Justice, Peggy Carter from Political Science, Maria Hill from Math, Bucky from Literature & Language and Clint from Theatre.

 

Bucky and Clint had met the first week of the Fall semester, the start of Clint’s second year and Bucky’s first on campus. They both had the supreme misfortune to be stuck on Curriculum - the regular Curriculum Committee, which was tasked with combing through new course, new program, new minor, new certificate and new major proposals, and well-known to be the second-most heinous Committee on campus based on workload and the animosity of their peers - and the first committee meeting happened to be on a Friday. Both of them were so overwhelmed by the sheer amount and variety of bitching they had endured during that hour-long meeting that, Clint was pretty confident, they were both regretting their decision to go into higher education. But then Natasha had showed up, had dragged both of them to the Dirty Girl Brewery and proceeded to get the both of them completely shitfaced, and well…

 

Well, Clint had no brain-to-mouth filter after five beers and Bucky had amazing thighs and eyes, and they had ended up back at Bucky’s apartment, dry humping until they were coming in their pants like desperately horny teenagers, and Clint had been so damn ashamed he had tried to sneak out when Bucky went to the bathroom to get a washcloth.

 

Clint being Clint, though, all he had managed to do was trip over Bucky’s cat and fall face-first through Bucky’s glass coffee table.

 

And if Clint after five beers had no brain-to-mouth filter, Clint on a Versed drip was apparently incapable of forming any sentence that wasn’t in some form or another him waxing poetic about Bucky. Bucky, the guy he had met just twelve hours earlier, who taught in a department that was notorious for its antipathy for Clint’s department, who had the prettiest eyes in the world, especially when the skin crinkled around them whenever he smiled, whose hair was somehow the perfect blend of hobo and hippie and fashion model, whose hands were rough and large and cupped Clint’s ass and jaw so well, whose fucking _mouth_ was like hell and heaven and everything Clint had ever wanted.

 

So, after some stitches and a lot of slurred ‘he’s not my boyfriend yet, but I’m gonna marry him’ explanations from Clint to literally _everyone_ who walked into his room, Bucky took Clint home and miraculously even gave Clint his phone number when Clint asked for it. Of course, Clint was still high - probably still drunk too - and had saved Bucky’s contact as BucKyBBBB.

 

And, because for all that the world _hated_ Clint, sometimes he did get damned lucky, Bucky was still talking to him - still texting him and calling him and actually _dating_ him - nine months later.

 

**Me: I’m wearing your Batman shirt again I’m sorry**

 

**BucKyBBBB: That’s okay. I’m wearing your Superman shirt today. But that explains what Natasha said to me at lunch. Have you murdered anyone yet?**

 

**Me: Are you still drawing the line at helping me hide the body of your department chair?**

 

**BucKyBBBB: Yes**

 

**Me: then no. But give it another ten minutes**

 

**BucKyBBBB: If you can go the whole meeting without committing homicide I’ll shave you tonight.**

 

And that…

 

Clint swallowed hard, and was pretty sure his face was the same color as a fire engine.

 

**Me: Shave me?**

 

Because they had talked about this. A few times. When they had first started dating - the week _after_ Bucky had taken him to the hospital - Clint had fumbled a comment about Bucky’s pubic hair - short and bristly and yet weirdly attractive - and Bucky had just rolled his eyes and explained that his last boyfriend had preferred his groin clean-shaven. Which… Clint had a lot of opinions about, none of which were probably the right things to say, so of course, he had said one of them. _I’d do that for you_.

 

Natasha had once told Clint that he was an adrenaline junkie with no concept of healthy human relationships, and… that was fair. Painfully fair. But then, he and Natasha had been friends ever since Clint had been in grad school and been arrested for punching a Neo-Nazi, and Natasha had been the officer tasked with booking him. Ten years later, she was Dr. Romanoff and no longer a member of law enforcement, and he was Professor Barton, still likely to get arrested for punching Nazis and still likely to have Natasha there on the other side of the bars to roll her eyes at him. But also to bail him out.

 

So, sure, saying he’d happily shave his groin for the guy he had known for two weeks - the guy he had dry humped, the guy he had slurred all kinds of awful, romantic, ridiculous things to at the hospital - wasn’t something that most people would say to their brand-new maybe-about-to-become boyfriend-type person. But Clint, again, had no concept of healthy relationships.

 

Lucky for him, Bucky had just smirked, guided his cock to Clint’s mouth, and said, _we’ll see_.

 

**BucKyBBBB: if you still want**

 

Around Clint, the conversation - argument? Whining? Whatever term best described adults engaging in territory pissing contests and pretending it was for the sake of their students - continued, but his attention was firmly fixed on that last text from Bucky.

 

 _If_ he still wanted. _If_.

 

“Well, Clint?”

 

He dropped his phone, feeling guilty, blushing like he was in trouble, and looked up to see that - yep, the entire table was looking at him.

 

Sam rolled his eyes when Clint’s panicked gaze met his.

 

“Can you repeat that?” Clint asked, and then, feeling like an absolute asshole and a traitor to the hard-of-hearing community, he tapped one of his purple BTEs. “Didn’t really hear it the first time.”

 

Pierce, one of the co-chairs and a business prof that Clint absolutely detested, scowled and cleared his throat.

 

“We were saying that there’s no real need to distinguish the Fine Arts category from the rest of the Humanities - since you’re pushing so hard for an interdisciplinary approach to all of this.”

 

Clint barely held in a groan.

 

Here it was.

 

The punishment he got for being so outspoken and challenging - now Pierce was going to push back against Clint’s department and see what happened.

 

Which… fair enough.

 

Clint had been pushing for an interdisciplinary approach.

 

But Clint also had a department chair who would gleefully rip off Clint’s balls and feed them to him if Clint let the Fine and Performing Arts Department get screwed over.

 

He sighed.

 

“I think whatever Core outcomes we have need to be really explicit about what we want our students to gain from the Core. If we feel that there are tools and skills and knowledge they acquire from taking a class in the Fine Arts that they might achieve in other courses - then of course we have to be open to that. But the accreditation board explicitly stated that ‘creative expression of self and identity’ was something our Core should have going forward. I don’t want us to lose sight of that.”

 

Which felt like a pretty generic, politic answer, and Clint was kinda proud of himself.

 

Except that apparently his words were grossly offensive to the Equine department, of all things, and- and the rest of the stupidly-long meeting was spent with Clint’s back against the wall as he was forced to justify the very existence of Music Appreciation classes at all.

 

And he completely forgot about responding to Bucky’s text.

 

-o-

 

Sam, Maria, Natasha and Clint were on their second pitcher when Steve and Bucky arrived at the Dirty Girl Brewery.

 

“Fuck committee work,” Sam toasted after he refilled his and Clint’s glasses for the third time.

 

Clint raised his own glass a little too enthusiastically, spilling some of his beer onto his wrist.

 

Natasha and Maria rolled their eyes but begrudgingly tapped their glasses to Sam and Clint’s.

 

Steve and Bucky came over bearing their own pitcher and - because they were actual saints or angels or something that was equal parts beautiful and just damn awe-inspiring - a giant plate of cheese fries.

 

“I fucking love you,” Clint groaned, and pulled free several cheese-drenched fries.

 

Bucky gave him a familiar look - part exasperation, part fondness - and slid into the seat between Clint and Natasha that they had been saving for him.

 

“Meeting go well?” Steve asked as he sat down beside Sam, running his hand over the other man’s shoulder in a gesture that was somewhere between platonic and possessive.

 

Sam choked on his beer at the question.

 

“If by ‘well’, you mean Clint and I are still walking and talking afterwards, sure,” Sam growled.

 

“It was hell,” Clint groaned. “Absolute and utter hell.”

 

“But you didn’t kill anyone, right?” Bucky asked, lips quirked up into his familiar, way too sexy to be seen in public, smirk.

 

Which - _shit_.

 

Their texts.

 

“No!” Clint said, too loud, and flushed when everyone turned to look at him. “I mean, no, no, I didn’t kill anyone. Just… yeah.” He cleared his throat and reached for more cheese fries.

 

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he slid one arm around Clint’s lower back and leaned forward.

 

“Do you have any idea what bullshit a student handed in to me today? A paper on George Sand that was word-for-word the wikipedia biographical data entry.” Bucky’s words successfully drew everyone’s attention away from Clint’s standard awkwardness, and Clint leaned against him gratefully while their friends launched into similar horror stories.

 

Clint, however, used the time to pull out his phone.

 

**Me: Yes. Yes please. I still want.**

 

He sent the text, set his phone down beside his beer, and made himself participate in the conversation. Even though all he really wanted to do was drag Bucky home and get naked with him _immediately_.

 

It wasn’t until later, until Clint was at the bar getting their… fourth? fifth? pitcher that his phone buzzed with a new message.

 

**BucKyBBBB: Good because the Violet Maven lipstick I bought on my way over is going to look amazing on your dick later.**

 

And that… that _did_ make Clint drop two twenties on the table, haul a smirking Bucky out of his chair, and drag him out of the bar and out onto the street.

 

It also made Clint incredibly grateful that they both lived in a small college town, the kind where rent within the quaint little downtown was cheap and Clint’s studio apartment was only two blocks away from the bar and the kind of place where no one looked more than twice at a pair of guys stumbling down the sidewalk with their tongues in each other’s mouths and hands all over each other.

 

-o-

 

Clint was already tugging at Bucky’s shirt before he had even closed the door behind them, which didn’t seem to bother Bucky at all, considering he was already unzipping Clint’s pants and shoving his hands down the back to grip Clint’s ass.

 

“Jesus. Fuck,” Clint panted into Bucky’s neck. “You got _lipstick_.”

 

“Gotta decorate you with something, sweetheart,” Bucky practically purred, and it made Clint shiver.

 

He managed to kick the door closed, which kind of unbalanced them and they stumbled a few feet farther into the apartment before Bucky caught them against the kitchen island and backed Clint up against it.

 

“You sure you want this?” Bucky asked him, looking serious for all that his cheeks were flushed, hair disheveled, lips swollen and eyes dark with lust.

 

“Fuck, yes. Wanted this since… Bucky, you _know_ I’ve wanted to do this since you told me you used to.” Clint felt his skin heat, and maybe it was the beer in his system, the arousal, something, because he felt hot and weird in his own body when Bucky just looked at him with his eyes and his mouth curved in a soft smile that wasn’t fair for Clint to have to see.

 

“Sweetheart, how I’d get so lucky to find you, huh?” Bucky asked, and kissed Clint, deep and possessive and gentle for all that it left Clint breathless and clinging to him and desperate for more.

 

“Think I’m the lucky one,” Clint managed to say when Bucky let him go and used both hands to tug off his own - well, technically Clint’s - shirt.

 

“There’s no law against both of us getting lucky,” Bucky said, and winked, knowing how lame the line sounded and knowing, all the same, that he could pull it off.

 

Clint just barely kept himself from swooning by propping his elbows on the island behind him and using it to support his weight.

 

“So, how are we gonna do this?” he asked. Because he had _imagined_ Bucky shaving him, sure, but never really the specifics of it.

 

“Bathroom,” Bucky said. “Get naked and get a pillow and meet me in there.”

 

“A pillow?”

 

Bucky raised his eyebrows, and Clint immediately held up both hands.

 

“Yes, sir. Sorry to question Dr. Barnes on his orders to bring a _pillow_ into my bathroom.”

 

Bucky snorted and shook his head as Clint walked past him.

 

He watched Bucky go into the bathroom and the light flick on, spilling warmth and brightness into the rest of the mostly dark apartment, and then set about undressing himself.

 

He put his clothes into the hamper by the bed in the far corner of the studio apartment, and then reluctantly pulled one of the pillows off of his bed. It was one of the ones that he liked to use because, well, he wasn’t going to make Bucky sleep on a pillow that had been on the bathroom floor, and yeah, he could - and would - change the pillowcase, but _still_.

 

Clint approached the bathroom and stopped to lean in the open doorway.

 

There was a towel on the floor, one end of it reaching all the way to the thin, brass transition strip that separated the bathroom tile from the hardwood floor of the rest of the apartment. Bucky was standing by the sink counter, an array of things before him that made Clint feel weirdly like this was some kind of doctor/patient surgical roleplay they were about to engage in. A can of shaving cream - the good, expensive kind that he used, and not the Barbasol that Clint was content with. Clint’s razor - way too fancy, by Bucky’s standards, because he’d spend three times as much on organic aloe-enriched seal free shaving cream that had had sage waved over it or something, but couldn’t be fussed to go for a five-bladed razor over three. A bowl that Bucky must have grabbed from the kitchen.

 

“Ready?” Bucky asked, steel gaze sweeping over Clint and leaving him caught between wanting to show off and cover himself up.

 

“As I’ll ever be,” Clint assured him with a crooked grin that had Bucky smiling in return.

 

Bucky, Clint noticed all at once, was completely still clothed. Down to his boots.

 

It made Clint way more aware of his own nudity, and also made him feel incredibly vulnerable and… weirdly turned on.

 

Bucky took the pillow from Clint and pulled Clint into the bathroom with him.

 

“Lay down, head towards the kitchen,” Bucky instructed.

 

Clint did so, feeling awkward as he curled down and hoped he looked… somehow appealing? He always had that hope, around Bucky, as well as the vague but nevertheless concrete fear that he _always_ looked like a damn disaster.

 

Once Clint was on his back, Bucky smirked and straddled him. Clint instinctively reached for his hips.

 

“This is more like it,” Clint grinned, and used his core muscles to lift up enough to lick a wet line between Bucky’s abs and pecs, and up to his jaw.

 

Bucky shuddered a breath out, but used his weight to press Clint back down to the floor, managing to slip the pillow between Clint’s head and the hardwood floor outside of the bathroom before he hit it.

 

Clever. Saving the pillow from plague and Clint’s head from discomfort.

 

“Comfortable?” Bucky asked, standing back up, lean legs looking miles long from Clint’s position on the floor.

 

“Yep, and enjoying the show,” Clint grinned, and winked when Bucky smirked.

 

“You’re gonna have to be still, or we’ll both regret it,” Bucky warned as he started to transfer his supplies from the counter to the floor near Clint’s hips. He turned on the tap in the sink and waited. Clint hoped it was for hot water.

 

“Promise I’ll be still,” Clint said, because no, he was absolutely not going to ruin this fantasy by moving and making Bucky cut him. Especially not when his own dick was involved. It was, after all, a thing that Bucky had, on many occasions, stated to be his very favorite dick in the world.

 

“Tell me if you want me to stop, or if you need a stretch break, or have an itch.”

 

Bucky was being very serious about this, as if they were sitting down for their first kink conversation and not just shaving Clint’s balls and groin.

 

Then again, their first kink conversation had happened because Bucky had been in the middle of fucking Clint literally into the couch, bent over and clutching a throw pillow while he screamed into it, and Bucky had spanked him and Clint had freaked _out_.

 

So, they sat down, had a serious talk about sex and, well, the fact that Clint’s father had been an abusive, alcoholic sack of shit who had delighted in making Clint shove down his pants to bare his ass before spanking him or whipping him with a belt as punishment.

 

It made a lot of sense, really, for Bucky to take even _this_ seriously. Still, it took Clint off-guard, a lot of the time, to realize just how kind and sincere and patient Bucky was with him. Because Clint? Clint was a fucking _disaster,_ and he could count on one hand the number of times his past boyfriends and girlfriends had taken Clint’s childhood trauma in stride and cared about him _more_ after learning about it instead of started to edge away, and, well, he’d have five fingers to spare.

 

“Will do,” Clint promised, and fluffed the pillow. “Get to work down there. You’ve got balls to shave.” He ended up laughing at himself before he could even get all the words out, and Bucky gave him a fond, exasperated sigh.

 

“It’s a good thing I like you,” Bucky muttered as he coaxed Clint into bending and spreading his legs.

 

“Amen, brother,” Clint agreed.

 

He closed his eyes, because the bathroom light was very bright and, well, staring down at Bucky was going to strain his neck.

 

Which seemed like a good idea - the closed-eyes thing - until he felt Bucky’s fingers spread his angel baby magic ancient Druid recipe shaving cream over Clint’s balls.

 

Despite Bucky’s warm fingers, the gel itself was cool, and Clint shivered.

 

“Alright there?” Bucky asked.

 

“Mmm,” Clint managed, because… yeah. Yeah, he was _definitely_ alright.

 

Bucky pressed a kiss to Clint’s left knee, and it had Clint grinning - probably had him looking like an idiot.

 

“I’m going to lather you up a bit, and then get to work. I’ll let you know before I start with the razor,” Bucky assured him.

 

Clint nodded in gratitude. Because it was one thing to be surprised by cool shaving cream - Bucky _knew_ Clint had a thing for temperature play and sensation play when it was in controlled circumstances - but a sharp anything near his dick wasn’t the kind of kink either of them wanted to jump into.

 

Except, Clint supposed, they kind of were.

 

“Is this kink?” he had to ask.

 

“Which part?” Bucky asked in response, those two words practically _dripping_ with his Dr. Bucky, Socratic Asshole voice - as Clint called it. Clint loved it. Clint could listen to Dr. Bucky, Socratic Asshole for _hours_ and not need any other stimulation to get hard.

 

“Any of this? All of it?”

 

“Good question,” Bucky said, and then paused, hand massaging shaving cream into Clint’s pubic hair and around the base of his very hard dick. “You’re getting off on it,” he said, and gave Clint’s dick a found, teasing tug that had Clint biting his lips to keep from begging for more. “And so am I, so it’s definitely _something_. I’m not sure… Maybe it’s a kind of service kink? It’s not the razor or the danger of that either of us are enjoying.”

 

“No,” Clint agreed.

 

Service kink.

 

He forgot occasionally that Bucky had written his dissertation on Shakespeare’s use of characters in servitude to express sexual non-consensual kink practices in a Renaissance world that hadn’t developed the language or identity for relationships that weren’t pro-creative or inherently deviant in nature. Clint had attended the faculty seminar where Bucky had summarized his research, months ago, and had left it uncomfortably aroused because… Dr. Bucky, Socratic Asshole was one thing, but Dr. Bucky, Socratic Asshole talking about Ariel and Caliban as sex slaves to Prospero in _The Tempest_ was mind-blowing and, well, erotic and sketchy at the same time? Bucky gave Clint a lot of pants feelings, pretty much on a daily basis, and Clint still hadn’t squared it with himself that he got turned on so _much_ by Bucky being so fucking smart. But, well, here they were.

 

In Clint’s bathroom, with Bucky shaving Clint’s genitals and having this conversation.

 

“You like service kink,” Bucky reminded him. And yeah, yeah, he did. Which, sure, was part of the pants feelings he got whenever he thought about the whole Ariel and Caliban and Prospero thing.

 

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “But usually, it’s me, you know, servicing you.”

 

“Sure, but this isn’t _not_ you servicing me.”

 

Clint snorted a laugh.

 

“Are you allowed to say that sentence as a Lit professor?”

 

“I’d watch the sass, if I was the one about to have a very sharp razor near my balls,” Bucky muttered.

 

“No, you wouldn’t,” Clint had to say.

 

“No,” Bucky agreed, “I wouldn’t. But the point still stands - _why_ do you want me to shave you?”

 

The question made Clint flush and made him want to squirm and made him want to do anything but actually answer it.

 

“Is it about me doing it?” Bucky persisted, still in full Dr. Bucky, Socratic Asshole mode. Suddenly, Clint had a whole lot more sympathy for the students who complained that Bucky’s resting bitchface wasn’t fair to look at when they had to sit an exam in his class. His _voice_ wasn’t fair to listen to. And Clint wasn’t even being graded for this.

 

Actually - that helped, that reminder.

 

He made himself take in a deep breath and let it out again.

 

“No, well, I like that it’s you doing it.”

 

“But you’d do it yourself if I wasn’t doing it right now, probably.”

 

“Probably, eventually, I think?”

 

That awkward jumble of honesty earned him another kiss, this time on the opposite kneecap.

 

“Would you do it to yourself if we weren’t dating?”

 

That question, well… Clint didn’t like to even _think_ about that possibility. Even though he was one-hundred percent certain that the possibility was going to become a reality eventually. After all, he was Clint Barton, Scenic Designer, and Bucky was… _Dr. James Buchanan Barnes_.

 

“No,” he responded.

 

“I’m going to start with the razor, and I’m going to work my way from here,” Bucky tapped one finger against Clint’s navel, “down. Okay?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Clint.”

 

“Green,” Clint said, grinning a little, because yeah, okay, this was kink, and if Bucky wanted to check in, then Clint would give him that. And he’d hold tight to the knowledge that Bucky cared enough to ask.

 

“So, part of what you like,” Bucky said as he pressed the razor to the top of Clint’s pubic hair, close to his left hip and started to drag it down. Clint held his breath. “Is that this is being done _for_ me.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint gasped, and what the _fuck,_ how was it erotic - how the hell was it turning him _on_ to feel the scrape of the razor against his skin, tugging through his pubic hair? What the _fuck_ ? Was he really just that gone for Bucky that literally anything he did was _it_ for Clint?

 

“Service kink. Well. Kind of. More like submissive behavior - but you want to be smooth _for_ me. You want to serve me, with your body.”

 

“Fuck, Bucky, I want to serve you however you let me,” Clint groaned as Bucky lifted the razor. He heard Bucky waggle the razor around in the bowl of water, and then, a moment later, the weight of it was back against his pelvis.

 

“So good for me, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, and Clint felt the words like a caress, lighting him up and making him feel warm all over.

 

“Doing okay?” Bucky asked after the second pass of the razor.

 

“So okay,” Clint assured him.

 

He maybe drifted a bit, after that, floating in a place that wasn’t really there but wasn’t _not_ there, not like he could sometimes get when Bucky took his time working Clint up and taking him to that place that was both in Clint’s head and free of it.

 

Still, it was nice, after the day he had had. Hell, after the _year_ he had had.

 

Just the scrape of the razor on his skin, the confident press of Bucky’s fingers against him as he shifted Clint however he wanted him, the sound of the razor swishing through the bowl of water as Bucky cleaned it after each pass.

 

“Clint.”

 

It took him a moment to respond.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

 

Clint reluctantly blinked his eyes open, wincing at the bright light until Bucky came into focus. Until Clint’s very naked, very _bare_ self came into view.

 

“Fuck,” he said, looking to where his cock, still half-hard, rested against his skin, with a few streaks of the Vegan Tolkien Elf-inspired shaving cream.

 

“Soon,” Bucky promised with a wink. “I’m about to start on your balls. You want a break?”

 

“Nah,” Clint decided, rolling his shoulders as he became more aware of his body. “I’m good. You?”

 

“I’m good,” Bucky assured him, and then, smirking, he ran his thumb over Clint’s now smooth groin.

 

Clint shuddered.

 

“Fuck,” he said again, because _fuck_.

 

“Sensitive?” Bucky asked, though it was clear from his expression that he knew what Clint’s answer would be.

 

“Fuck yes,” Clint groaned as Bucky curved his thumb and dragged his nail over the same path.

 

“Just wait ‘til it’s my mouth,” Bucky said.

 

Clint groaned again.

 

“You’re such a tease,” he whined.

 

“And _you_ are being very good, aren’t you?”

 

This wasn’t _quite_ their usual dynamic when they played, but it still wasn’t that far off either.

 

Clint shivered, letting himself sink back into that not-quite-there place.

 

“Trying,” he said.

 

“You’re doing good,” Bucky assured him. “Always so good for me.”

 

Which was kind of a ridiculous thing to say, considering that their _first night together_ had been spent in the ER, but…

 

“Ready?” Bucky asked, once again holding up the razor.

 

Clint nodded, and then closed his eyes again.

 

“Ready.”

 

And immediately swore again, because yep - those were his balls, that was a _razor_ against his balls and-

 

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got you. If you want to keep going.”

 

Clint realized he was holding his breath - or rather, hadn’t breathed again since feeling the sharp metal on his skin, and forced himself to draw in a breath. And then release it. He repeated the process a few more times before he was even aware of the fact that Bucky was stroking over his thigh with one hand, just making gentle, lazy circles with his fingers.

 

“How are you doing?” Bucky asked.

 

Clint considered the question. Not great, was the honest answer. But, well, Clint hadn’t gone through years of therapy to leave it at that. _Why_ did he feel not great?

 

Because he was afraid Bucky was going to cut him?

 

Bucky absolutely wouldn’t. And, hell, Bucky was weirdly good with knives - he could even peel the skins off fruit and vegetables in intricate patterns that, as with pretty much anything Bucky did, gave Clint pants feelings.

 

Because he was afraid Bucky was going to hurt him in another way?

 

And maybe that was it.

 

Clint was… well, he was a mess. And it wasn’t like Bucky’s life and psyche were paper-doll cut-out perfect - he had his own freight train full of baggage that he worked through on a daily basis, much like Clint did. But, well, he was _Bucky_ and Clint was _Clint_.

 

But he felt vulnerable, exposed, in a way that was different than before. Which didn’t make a lot of sense, but then, brains were fucked-up fat slushies or something, and they never made sense.

 

He kind of wanted to just bluff his way through the rest of this, just bite his lip and let Bucky go to town and-

 

“Want to do it yourself while I watch?” Bucky offered.

 

Clint forced himself to open his eyes, fully expecting to see judgement or disappointment or _something_ on Bucky’s face that wasn’t concern.

 

Bucky offered him a slight, soft smirk, and Clint kind of just… melted.

 

“Sweetheart?” Bucky prompted. “We don’t have to do anything else.”

 

Clint considered that option. It wasn’t that appealing. It was, in fact, about as appealing as Bucky putting that razor back against his balls.

 

But Clint shaving himself while Bucky watched?

 

He could do that.

 

He did a kind of rolling push-up so that he was sitting.

 

Bucky’s eyes widened, and then narrowed. Color rose on his cheeks.

 

It was the look, the one that Clint knew from months of careful observation, that meant Clint had done something Bucky found unspeakably hot.

 

“I could do it,” Clint decided, bolstered by that look.

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asked.

 

Clint nodded.

 

“Sure. I shave my face and throat all the time. Haven’t killed myself once.”

 

Bucky snorted in amusement.

 

“You don’t have to do it,” he said.

 

Clint shrugged.

 

“I know. I want to, though.” And he really did.

 

So, he held out his hand for the razor. His razor. That was something, at least. A familiar weight in his hand.

 

Lifting his dick so he could get a better angle to _shave his balls,_ however, was a new experience.

 

“I’d like you to shave my face sometime,” Bucky said after a few minutes of silence, of Clint methodically and somewhat awkwardly working.

 

That drew Clint’s attention to Bucky’s face.

 

Usually, Bucky maintained a few days of stubble, because he didn’t really like shaving, but also preferred not to go fully-bearded when it was warm. As a result, winter months meant bearded Bucky, and Clint had known it was really, finally spring the morning in April when Bucky had joined him for lunch in the school cafeteria with a completely clean-shaven face for the first time since November. Clint had promptly spilled his coffee.

 

“Really?” Clint asked.

 

Bucky nodded, gaze flicking between Clint’s face and his hands.

 

“Yeah. I have ever since that morning I watched you shave. Back in October.”

 

Which was… a lot of months ago, considering that it was the first week in May.

 

“Really?” Clint repeated himself like the genius he was.

 

Bucky gave him the look again.

 

“You’re good with your hands,” he said, sounding almost defensive.

 

Clint grinned and got back to work with said hands.

 

“I’d be happy to shave your face sometime,” he said. “You gonna let me use my razor on you?”

 

Clint wasn’t looking, but he didn’t need to to know that Bucky rolled his eyes.

 

“My razor works just fine.”

 

“And yet, you wouldn’t use it for this,” Clint pointed out.

 

Bucky didn’t have a comeback, so Clint silently congratulated himself on that.

 

“How do you like the shaving cream?” Bucky asked when Clint was down to tugging apart his own ass-cheeks and curling into probably the least sexiest position imaginable to get the last of his hair.

 

He paused, however, to shoot Bucky a glare.

 

Bucky grinned back at him.

 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Bucky taunted.

 

“I’m sure my shaving cream would feel just as good,” Clint muttered.

 

“Doubtful. Plus, your dick wouldn’t smell like me if I had used that crap instead.”

 

And… fair point. Fair fucking point.

 

Huh.

 

Clint knew Bucky had a bit of a possessive streak - not in any ways that Clint minded. Bucky just liked to touch him, sometimes, liked to see Clint in his clothes and in his apartment, and liked to bring Clint coffee and eat lunch with him. And leave a _lot_ of marks on Clint’s body.

 

All of which Clint was one-hundred percent on-board with. So very, very on-board with.

 

If Bucky wanted Clint to use his shaving cream because it was another one of those possessive little things? Hell, sign him up. Goodbye, Barbasol. Hello, pixie-dust fairy tear infused herbal alien nectar of the gods shaving cream.

 

“I think I’ve got everything?” Clint said, asked really, once he finished.

 

Bucky looked him over.

 

“Mmm,” he agreed. “You weren’t even looking in a mirror.”

 

“I’ve got good spatial awareness.”

 

“Says the guy who routinely trips over the furniture in his own apartment.”

 

“Listen, the earth’s crust has tectonic plates that _shift_ all of the time, and it’s not my fault.”

 

“You’re so pretty,” Bucky said, his usual way of ending these kinds of arguments.

 

Clint glared at him - his usual response - and Bucky kissed him until Clint didn’t care about it anymore. Again, par for the course.

 

“Shower?” Bucky suggested.

 

Clint nodded. It would feel good, especially after the long day and the hours at the brewery.

 

“Gonna join me?”

 

“Gonna wash my back?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he helped Clint to his feet, and Clint started to fiddle with the water while Bucky cleaned up the shaving supplies.

 

“You might want to take off those clothes you’re hanging onto,” Clint suggested.

 

“If you insist,” Bucky sighed, but he did take off his pants, briefs and socks, and drop them into a pile out in the hallway, beside the pillow.

 

Clint pulled him close, angling for another kiss, but was completely derailed by the sensation of Bucky against his newly-bared skin.

 

“Oh, wow. That’s… intense,” Clint decided.

 

“Mmm,” Bucky agreed. “Always is right after you shave, but it’ll stay that way a little until you let the hair grow back in.”

 

They stepped into the shower and, for all that this whole _night_ \- hell, the whole day ever since Bucky’s text during Clint’s committee meeting - had been leading towards sex, the actual cleaning-up part of things was fairly tame.

 

Clint did, as promised, wash Bucky’s back, but otherwise, they mostly kept their hands to themselves, though they did lean together, did exchange long kisses and a few caresses that definitely had Clint thinking about what they could do _after_ their shower.

 

“Clean a little more for me?” Bucky asked, kissing Clint’s shoulder and trailing his fingers down the curve of Clint’s ass, his meaning very clear.

 

“Yeah,” Clint managed.

 

“I’ll wait for you in the bed,” Bucky said, and then slipped out of the shower so that Clint could, in fact, clean a little more.

 

And think about what _that_ meant Bucky’s plans for him were.

 

-o-

 

Violet Maven was, Clint decided, definitely Bucky’s color. So, so much Bucky’s color. And Clint had gone to school for this - he had a BFA and an MFA in design. He knew color theory.

 

And sure, gun to his head, he would swear that _every_ color was Bucky’s color. But still, that particular shade of reddish-purple was hot as fuck. Bucky’s lips always looked a little dark, probably from his habit of chewing on his lower lip - which Clint was still convinced Bucky did just to taunt the human population, but Bucky insisted was a nervous habit - but now, with this lipstick, they look so full and dark and downright wicked in a way that had Clint crossing the room and crawling up the bed, eager and desperate to kiss him.

 

Bucky smirked, let Clint climb over him and ease him back onto the pillows and curved a hand into Clint’s hair and tugged him close.

 

The kiss felt a little slicker, which was maybe Clint’s imagination or maybe the lipstick, but either way, it didn’t matter - Bucky still tasted like Bucky, except with a hint of something else, something just a little waxy and foreign, and Clint wanted to spend the rest of his life kissing him.

 

But then Bucky was rolling them, until he was straddling Clint and kissing his way down Clint’s jaw, throat and chest.

 

Clint watched, unable not to, and saw the purple-red marks Bucky was leaving behind. Holy fuck, that was hot.

 

Bucky gave Clint’s left nipple a sharp little squeeze, and when Clint hissed, he replaced his fingers with his mouth, soothing the sting and then sucking until pleasure and pain were sparking through Clint all over again.

 

When Bucky moved to the other side, he left Clint’s nipple swollen and dark from his attention and the lipstick.

 

Clint was fully prepared to die right this second.

 

But then Bucky was moving _lower_ , kissing and licking his way down Clint’s abs, spending a lot of time tracing the muscles he had waxed poetic about more than once, to Clint’s intense mortification, because he still found it bizarre that Bucky was that impressed by _any_ part of him.

 

And then the stubble on Bucky’s chin was rubbing against Clint’s groin, and _fuck_.

 

He moaned, which he figured was better than shouting, but it felt so much _more_ than he had been expecting it would.

 

And then Bucky started kissing him, open-mouthed, filthy kisses that had Clint shuddering and simultaneously arching up into them and trying to curl away as Bucky _tortured_ him with sensation.

 

“Fuck,” Clint groaned. Bucky hadn’t even gotten his lips on Clint’s dick yet.

 

And, in fact, Bucky didn’t seem like he was in a rush to go in that direction at all.

 

Instead, he spread Clint’s legs wide and kissed and licked his way lower, until-

 

“Jesus fucking - _Bucky_!” Clint maybe did scream then, but his balls had never, ever been all that sensitive - unless pain was involved, and in that case, they were damn sensitive and wanted to be left the hell alone, thanks much - but now? Now, they were beyond sensitive. Bucky probably knew what word that was. Or maybe there was some German word that precisely described the feeling of just having your balls shaved and now feeling like you were about to explode out of your own skin when someone licked them. There had to be a German word for that.

 

But Bucky wasn’t done, wasn’t deterred by Clint’s outburst in any way. Instead, he just kept sucking and kissing and licking and nipping, and Clint moaned and groaned and clutched at the sheets and wondered if he was going to come from just _this,_ and whether or not that would be a compliment to Bucky or just an embarrassment to Clint. Both? Both.

 

Bucky’s hands grasped Clint’s ass, squeezing and pushing his cheeks apart, and he knew where this was headed, and Clint- Clint was not prepared.

 

Clint had a thing for beard-burn, had actually - because of fucking course he had - told Bucky that first night while on that damned Versed drip that he wanted Bucky’s stubble to chafe his ass and thighs enough that he would feel it for days after.

 

This? This was nothing like the times when Bucky had indulged Clint’s apparently very explicitly-detailed fantasy - the best? worst? thing about the Versed was that Clint didn’t remember _any_ of what he had said to Bucky, the three nurses who had taken care of him, the poor - probably scarred - resident, the doctors or the PA. So he had to take Bucky at his word when he said that Clint had said just how much Clint wanted Bucky’s face between his thighs. And, because sure, he’d say that too, how much he wanted _his_ face between Bucky’s thighs.

 

This time felt like Clint was raw, flayed open in both the best and worst ways possible, and then Bucky was biting his rim and Clint was coming, practically completely untouched.

 

Bucky pulled back to stare at him, face an absolute mess - lipstick and spit smeared all over his mouth and chin.

 

“Sweetheart, did you just come for me?”

 

Clint made a sound, something that he hope conveyed just how incredibly pathetic he knew he was.

 

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Bucky groaned, that look on his face again as he crawled back up Clint’s body and kissed him, tongue thrusting into Clint’s mouth, and Clint kissed him back, desperate and drained and clinging to Bucky through the aftershocks of his orgasm and embarrassment.

 

“Clint, you are so incredible,” Bucky said against his lips. “So gorgeous, so fucking sexy. So good for me. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re the most amazing guy I’ve ever met. I love you so much.”

 

And that-

 

That was a _word_.

 

A word that Clint threw out pretty often - whenever coffee or food was involved, or even just whenever Bucky delivered a perfectly scathingly arched eyebrow in the direction of a mutually-detested colleague. But Clint hadn’t said it in a… deeper kind of context.

 

And Bucky had never said it at all.

 

Clint pushed at Bucky’s shoulders enough so that there were a few inches of space between them.

 

Bucky’s eyes were wide, and he was biting his bottom lip.

 

“Lucky me,” Clint said, and let himself grin, let himself feel a little bit okay - a little bit fucking great, actually - when Bucky grinned back.

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, and he sounded unsure, uncertain like he almost never did.

 

“Oh, hell yeah. Dr. James Buchanan Barnes loves _me_? Little ol’ me? Fuck, babe. You’re- I love you. I really, really love you.”

 

Bucky arched his eyebrows.

 

“Because I brought you cheese fries.”

 

“Because you look almost as good as I do in my Superman shirt.”

 

“What do you mean ‘almost’ as good?” Bucky huffed.

 

Clint kissed him again.

 

“What can I say? You look better with nothing on. Which, hey, you seem to be wearing a lot of nothing right now. Can I demonstrate my appreciation?”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he settled back down onto the bed.

 

“By all means. I’m all yours.”

 

-o-

  
  
  
  
****

**Author's Note:**

> First 8 pages are beta read, because I went back and decided hey, I needed to add another 12 pages to this fic. So don't blame Ro - I mean, never blame Ro. It's all my own mess.
> 
> Anyway, once she does her magic I will replace this doc with the cleaned up version.
> 
> So, anyway, thanks 3000 to Ro.
> 
> (see what I did there??????)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Russian Red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674242) by [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB)




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